Here was a yellow caravan with little curtained windows, a thing most pregnant of mysteries to eight-years-old. A big white horse, unharnessed from the van, was cropping the turf. There was an iron pot hanging above a jolly fire of sticks. On the steps of the van a girl of about Percival's own age sat knitting. She was olive of face, with long, black hair; her legs were bare and they looked very long, Percival thought. By the fire, astride of a felled tree trunk, was a little man with a very brown face that was marked like a sailor's with many puckered little lines. He had a tight-lipped mouth with a short pipe that seemed a natural part of it, and he wore a long jacket and had a high hat of some rough, brown fur. He was reading a book; and as Percival stood watching, he put a finger to mark his place and looked up slowly as though he had known Percival was there but wished to read to a certain point before interrupting himself.
He looked up and Percival noticed that his eyes, set in that brown, puckered face, were uncommonly bright. "Welcome, little master," said he. "All the luck!"
"Hullo!" said Percival. "Excuse me staring. This is funny to me, you know."
"Quiet, though," said the little man, his eyes twinkling; "and that's the best thing in life."
Percival came up to him, vastly attracted. "Do you live in that van?"
"That's where I live, little master—Ima and I."
Percival stared at the girl on the steps, who stared back at him and then smiled. "Ima? That's a funny name," he said.
"Maybe she's a funny girl," said the little man, twinkling more than ever.
Percival took it quite seriously. "Well, her legs are long," he said appraisingly.
"They can run, though, little master," said the girl. She had a curiously soft voice, Percival noticed. But he was rather puzzled with it all and remained serious. "Is your name funny, too?" he asked the little man.